In My Tiniest Of Backyards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gold is carried over the hills by Alma’s sweet wrists
That I carried and kissed today,
That I reached over and held like newborn hummingbirds
In the crib of her air-conditioned car before
She had to drive away:
But I bought her a three hundred dollar rosary of white gold,
So maybe now she loves me:
And when I listen to her pulse I can look far away toward
The northern clouds, and maybe towards Disney World:
And the atmosphere seems to intensify:
There is the music of angels being picked by the wings of
Airplanes;
And in the instances that were never meant to be,
I can seem to feel alive: as the day hibernates, as I wet her brown
Skin with my weeping letters,
Only to let my mind drift to the tattoos I got in Spain,
And to the yellow Senna trees I want to plant in my tiniest
Of backyards.